Last Exit To Eden
by Minor Ramblings
Summary: In an alternate take on X2, Jean is unable to break Stryker's hold on Scott, and is forced to kill him instead. Grieving and guilty, Jean takes off for Canada, Logan follows her, and they end up uncovering something rotten in the port of Halifax.
1. Last Exit To Eden: Chapter 1

Last Exit to Eden  
Timeline: Post-X2, alternate ending  
Summary: What if the fight in the generator room had ended differently?  
Pairings: L/J, lots of mention of S/J  
Rating: PG13 for some bad language. (Dude, it's Logan and an angsty Jean, you expect something else? ;->)  
Disclaimer: I own nothing that belongs to Marvel, 20th Century Fox, etc. etc., don't sue me, all you'd get would be the rights to my student loans. Blah.

_A/N: All right, so this is the attack of the plot bunny that wouldn't die, despite my whining at it to do so and leave me be. This tries to answer a what-if that occurred to me after seeing the movie. What if Jean -couldn't- break Stryker's control on Scott? It's gonna be angsty, it's gonna be introspective, and there's going to be very little fluff. Run. Run now. Methinks I'll make a two or three parter of this. Also inspired by listening to far too much Amanda Marshall. Feedback and beta-reading would be adored and given cookies?_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was Logan that found them, the flames of the Phoenix risen in defiance of the dam collapsing around her ears, her shattered leg canted at an unnatural angle out behind her as she cradled his head in her lap, rocking gently like a Madonna and child, seemingly heedless of anything but the still, perfect features of Scott Summers, released at last from their icy chemical mask and now resting in almost beautiful repose.

Dead without a mark on him. Even in killing, Jean was a surgeon still. The waxen face showed no sign of the brain behind it, riddled with aneurysms from her final, desperate effort to save him, save herself, after the blast that cracked the dam left him still advancing and her down for the count. Splitting her teke to burrow through his body like a hell-bred parasite, she'd sought out the weak spots in an attempt to cure or kill. 

The results of that last-ditch experiment were obvious. And so, she'd resolved to die with him, to protect his body from the indignities of the inevitable dam burst, rather that try to make it away herself. She wasn't going anywhere with that bad of a broken leg anyways. 

And so Logan found them, the others safely aboard the jet, but the man refusing to leave without Jean, he'd traced her first by the Professor's guidance and then by her scent, finding her wrapped in a cocoon of fire that spoke of a force of will still strong behind that mindless exterior. When he pressed her to leave and come with him, she screamed at him to go away with sudden violence in her tone, raging at him, raging at the circumstance, raging at herself for not being good enough, for not being strong enough or smart enough to find some other way. 

He let her rage, let her curse him, let her damn the day she'd met him, because it was his kiss that had been last on her lips, and not the man who now lay dead, that her heart couldn't let her give up and join her fiancee, _her fiancee_, in final oblivion, because he'd, damn him, stolen a place in it for himself. He couldn't even let her have _this_ separate and alone.

Through it all he stood there, waiting, until a falling chunk of concrete nearly flattened him, and she automatically deflected it, and then suffered herself to be picked up and carried away, limp and helpless as a tired child. He brought the body, too. Wouldn't have been right to leave it.

She sat alone and separate from the others on the flight back home, eyes dark and skin pale, features cut from marble. The kids watched her with unease, the Professor and Storm with concern. Kurt Wagner had attempted to speak to her, offer a few words of comfort, but had stopped partway through and returned to his own seat in embarassed silence at a simple shake of her head. Logan alone left her be, simply working with Storm to fly the Blackbird and letting her have her isolation the way he hadn't let her have her death.

She did not go with the rest of the team to Washington.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She couldn't stand to sleep in their bedroom, and had been relocated back down the hall to the room she'd occupied as a girl, snatching bits of rest in among the pyramid of stuffed toys on the teenager-approved bed, or staring over at a wall still decked with dusty rosettes and ribbons, legacy of long-past horse shows. So, the day after the funeral, four days after their return, four days after she'd murdered one of their own, Jean left. 

They'd buried him on a hill with a view of Breakstone Lake and the Mansion, the grounds of the place that had been his home spread out at his feet. _Scott Summers, 1980 - 2003. Fidelis_ Below it, etched with the deftest hand, the 14 lines of John Gillespie Magee's sonnet 'High Flight'. Calm, peaceful, fitting... and it should never have happened so soon.

Scott's foster parents, who'd heard nothing for years from a beloved son who'd been too bleakly sure they'd never accept him as a mutant, had been flown in by Professor Xavier, who somehow knew where to find them, and that they'd come. Grey haired and quiet, they spoke softly with those who'd known him, told stories of their bright, wonderful boy as they'd known him, seemed glad that he'd had friends, had a place, had a future.

The explanation given mentioned nothing of the real circumstances of his death, of course. Professor Xavier stated it was a simple aneurysm, quite unpreventable, no warning, and almost instant. An unforseeable accident. At this, Jean began to laugh out loud, suddenly seguing into hysterical tears, until Storm was tasked to take her away to lie down, away from the shocked parents. Murmured explanations of 'grief' served only to anger her, until a sedative from her own dispensary was administered, and she fell into warm darkness for 12 hours, only the occasional twinges of her splinted and healing leg intruding on shapeless dreams.

A Greyhound bus the next morning, a ticket for some backwoods town in Canada, up past Sudbury, whose sole draw was that no-one would think to look there. She sat alone on the bus, as separate among strangers as she'd been among friends, and stared out the window at the endless scenery. A stopover in Toronto had provided a change of clothing, even though she now looked like a tourist in a garish souvenir sweatshirt and hat, both blazoned with maple leaves. An elderly lady kept trying to feed her oranges and tell her about the loss of each of her three husbands. She listened with a detached politeness, and declined the fruit.

Left two days later in front of one of those classic motel-and-diner joints that typify small Northern Ontario towns, she shifted her bag on her shoulder and had a brief bite to eat at the counter, where the loggers and loggers' wives watched her, screamingly a city girl, but didn't press for details. Checked into a room with a bottle of Crown Royal for company, a bucket of ice, and a tumbler glass from the bathroom. Didn't open it. The ice melted, she poured the water down the sink and got more. She watched a lot of CBC, but retained none of it bar the news reports on the Canadian mutant situation that some logical part of her mind wouldn't let her tune out.

Two days after that, she came back from an aimless walk up and down the nearby stretch of highway in the snow, crutches catching in the ruts at the side of the road, half hoping she'd get eaten by a rabid moose, to find Logan settled on her bed, watching hockey and drinking the whiskey she hadn't touched.


	2. Last Exit To Eden: Chapter 2

The man was certainly living up to his namesake, she'd have to give him that much. 

Shouldering through the doorway, far too clumsy on her crutches to deliver the patented Jean Grey Look with any force, she sighed, took another long look at the Wolverine, ensconced so smugly on the ghastly roses of the motel bedspread, and folded bonelessly into a chair. Letting the crutches clatter to the floor, her tone was flat, unquestioning as she stated that "The Professor sent you."

"Naw, Jean." A laconic reply, lazy posture as he leaned on his elbows masking a hidden concern screamingly obvious to her mind. Everyone had been seeming an open book to her lately, since shortly before the events at... Her mind stuttered to a halt, and she irritably pushed onwards in defiance of her nerves. 

_Alkali Lake. Hah. I said it._ She'd enjoyed the new sensitivity of her powers on the bus, a welcome distraction from the burning knot in her chest whenever her mind travelled only on it's own thoughts, but now...? Concern thrummed off Logan's mind, both infuriating and tempting in the release offered if she gave in to it. Fuck the concern. Fuck all of their concern, weighing on her like a depth of water, smothering her until she ran. _All I want is to be alone--_

He was still talking. Words slow and steady, eyes locked on her face. She'd thought she could swim forever in those gorgeous hazel eyes once, another lifetime of nine days ago.

"Chuck didn't send me. Didn't want you to be disturbed..." _Good_, she snapped, if only in her head. "Going on about adjustment periods, emotional distance, acting out, all that psychological bullshit you academics are so damn fond of. Fuck that, Jeannie. I ain't got a string of letters behind my name, but I know about pain, and I know about loss. And I know that people need other people, and not just sitting alone in some shitty motel with a bottle of whiskey they're too guilty to drink. So," Logan announced, looking up and smirking a little at catching her watching out of the corner of her eye, "I ain't leaving 'til you wanna head back to the school. S'where you belong." He paused, looking expectant and a little pleased with himself.

Jean merely lifted an eyebrow and said nothing. While she had to admit that was probably the longest speech she'd ever head from him, she'd be damned if she was going to fall sobbing around his neck like some heroine out of a bad movie. _Even though it would feel really good to be held..._ a traitorous segment of her brain whispered. She ignored it. Logan was Logan. He was the bad boy drifter who'd breezed in from nowhere and swapped the order of her emotions pole for pole. He was the reason that her memories of Scott would never be wholly untouched by mixed feelings. And now he'd tracked her down like his very presence was supposed to make it all better? 

_Arrogant bastard. _

Arrogant bastard who was sprawled in the middle of her bed. Her bed. Her bed which was much more comfortable than the hard chair. And her leg in its cast was starting to ache, hinting at time for more painkillers and elevating it. 

Minutes passed.

The hockey game roared on, the sound tinny over the speakers of the cheap television. The Flames from somewhere scored twice on the something-or-others from Vancouver. She had to admit that the killer whale logo looked rather neat. The ref blew the whistle for some undefinable reason that nonetheless had Logan growling. 

Her leg was really starting to get insistant.

Halftime or whatever it was in hockey started, and some loudmouthed man in an obnoxious plaid jacket began to bash the coaches of the team from Vancouver. Her leg was getting interminable. A little smirk on Logan's lips let her know that the man on the bed had noticed her fidgeting.

Scowling, but determined to not say a word, she hopped the short distance between them, flopped on the bed beside Logan, stole his pillow to prop up her leg, switched the channel from sports to gardening with telekinesis and a thin smile, and then defiantly ignored him, popping one of her pills and letting the smile remain.

Watching the show for his benefit from the corner of one eye, Logan bit down on a laugh. Red was still a fighter, she'd be all right. She just needed a smug son of a bitch to help push her along a bit. And he was the best at what he did...


	3. Last Exit To Eden: Chapter 3

Three monosyllabic days later, Jean was on the road again, this time riding pillion on the back of Logan's motorcycle, her cast somehow cinched securely into place, and her crutches attached to one side with bungee cords.

_It really is Logan's motorcycle now._ Scott was no longer around to carry on the rivalry. Because of her. One more piece of the Scott-shaped hole in the universe. If she'd know she was going to lose him, her restless mind nagged at her, would she really have watched his territorial trumpeting with such a coolly laughing disdain for alpha male games? So many memories of the two of them on this bike, countless drives through the Westchester woods, 'testing' some new modification as their excuse to get away from the Professor's knowing smile. Or the victory lap taken after her medical school graduation, the wind whipping her robes and tousling her hair as she clung to him, the mortarboard cap long lost in the dust as she enjoyed the summer breeze and the love and pride and approval from him warming her as surely as the sun. Of course, that had been before the School had gotten so busy. It had been months since their last ride. But he'd still loved her... he'd just had his duties. As had she. The Dream first above all, right? Now, all she had left was the Dream. The thought seemed rather... bleak.

_Dammit, why couldn't Logan have just rented a car?_ Although she had to admit that the image of the Wolverine queueing in line at Budget was a pretty amusing one. There. Think of laughter, even if you don't feel it. So, Logan had Scott's bike, huh? _If I catch him thinking about adding Scott's girl to the collection,_ she mused, with sudden heat and a tightened grip, _his ass is going to be in a sling. Hah._ The joke fell flat, even in her head, a wrongness to the thought, a sense of empty bravado trying to counter a truth. Thinking along those lines raised other lines she didn't want to think about, so, with a slip into half-meditation, she emptied her mind ruthlessly and focused on observing the present alone. 

Trees. Lots of trees. Lots of trees, a two-lane highway, logging trucks and the occasional glimpse of a lake through wind watered eyes. 'Longlac to Hearst', Logan had identified this stretch of the drive, meaningless to her mind, but accompanied by the brief explanation of 'A shortcut'.

A shortcut. Uh-huh. "Logan, is there anything out here besides trees?"

"Sure. Moose."

"Thanks, you're so much help."

"Deer too, probably bears. Wolves, foxes, lynx, beavers..."

"I get the point!" The bike's engine roared steadily. That trademark smirk hung in the air between them, despite his broad shoulders remaining steady beyond the smooth movements of steering. _Much larger shoulders than Sco-- Dammit, Jean, you really are a faithless bitch!!_ Annoyed with herself, she huffed a little and tuned back in to Radio Wolverine. 

"No people though, if that's what you're asking. I thought you wanted to run off and abandon the world, though...?"

_Smug bastard._ There. That was better. 

"I didn't want to be _totally_ isolated...!" she tried to explain, the words sounding more than a little weak to her ears.

_Smooth, Dr. Grey. -You- spoke to Congress?_

"I just... I just... Oh hell." Glaring malevolently at the back of his head, she lapsed into a ruffled silence, with "And quit smirking!" offered as a parting shot.

The road hummed onwards beneath them, and there was a moment's adrenaline courtesy of a tired truckdriver veering into their lane. Eventually, Logan spoke, the frayed velvet of his voice caught more as a rumbling against her chest and a ripple in her mind than as word whipped through the air.

"Seems to me, Jean, that you're afraid."

She made an indistinct sound of displeasure, and was about to launch a counter-argument when a gently raised hand stilled her. But only because she preferred Logan with both hands steering, of course. _Of course._

"No, you don't wanna admit it," he alowed. "Hell, you've probably gone and bought into everyone thinking you're perfect, and a good little WASP gal ain't supposed to feel the way you feel, but there's nothing wrong with wanting to live, Jeannie. Nothing wrong with saving yourself."

"You don't understand."

"I think I do, Red. I think you and I have a lot more in common than you wanna say."

"**No.**" The sudden strength of her anger at his continued thoughts that he could possibly understand surprised the both of them, likewise the shout torn from reserved, refined Jean's throat, cracking as she held off either violence or tears. "You. Don't. Understand." she bit out, hands like claws buried in the leather of his jacket. "I killed him. He's _dead_ because of _me_. We had dreams, plans, a _future_, and I killed them all because I just wasn't... wasn't.." 

_Strong enough? Fast enough? Good enough? _

Something. 

Taking a ragged breath, she swallowed and loosened her grip, although Logan hadn't complained. Hadn't said a word, in fact. "Focused enough," she finally settled on. "Psi adepts are all about mind over matter, right? Maybe if he'd been the only one on my mind, I could've saved him. But he wasn't, and now he's dead, and that's..."

"That's why you're afraid to let yourself live without him," Logan finished for her, the smirk gone from his voice, and his mental presence almost... troubled? Logan? They drove the next two hours in silence.


	4. Last Exit to Eden: Chapter 4

Logan was troubled.

While he had a reputation for being a moody bastard, and that suited him just fine, there were problems, and then there were problems. The problems he was used to were either the kind that could be solved with a good Act of Claw, or were the kind like his memory, that couldn't (According to ol' Wheels, anyways. ) be solved by anything but time. He could handle that, mostly.

Figures that a third kind of problem would have to waltz into his life, all wrapped up in five foot eleven of hot redhead now tucked in behind him on his bike.

He'd figured it would be simple. Give Jean a shoulder to cry on, let her know she wasn't the only one to lose people, drive her back to Westchester where she belonged, and hand her over to folks far better at all this psychology crap than he was. Figured it was just survivor's guilt, a feeling he knew plenty about.

Figured wrong, obviously. Sure, there was guilt there, but he'd never guessed he'd gotten as far under her skin as she had under his. Loners never got the girl in the real world, he knew that, and she'd been pretty clear about his place in her life back underneath the Blackbird. The memory of that moment floated back to him before, with a subvocalized growl, he chased it away again, revving the bike's motor and urging it faster along the straight length of the single lane highway. 

So, it seemed he was the last person that should've gone hunting her down and bringing her back. Too late now, though. May as well try and make something from the mess, and much as Jeannie denied it, she wasn't the type to be left alone to grieve. All she'd do was just beat herself up all the more. 

Around a curve about a kilometer ahead, he could see a logging truck in front of them. Taking refuge in action, he gunned the engine on the bike again, and grinned a little in spite of himself at feeling the overcharged machine respond. Say what you would about Summers, the kid had known how to treat a motorcycle. May he rest in peace for that, if nothing else.

Behind him, Jean tensed at the burst of speed, and he accelerated a little more, 'til she was clinging to him in a reflexive response. So. Red. What to do about Red?

Well, he'd said he could be the good guy. And she'd said that good guys stuck around. So here he was, and here she was, and she wasn't going to take kindly to Westchester, he could smell it. 

Hadn't Chuck mentioned something strange happening out in the Maritimes? 

"Ever been to Nova Scotia?" he wondered, voice raspy from the wind and the long silence.

"No... never." came the answer, Jean sounding puzzled.

"Good, me neither." he called back, letting a smirk slide into his voice to try and get a rise out of her. The bike finally caught up with the logging truck, passing it in a rush of wind, and a blare from the irate trucker's horn. "'Cause that's where we're goin'."

****A/N** And that short chapter (Logan-muse is rather taciturn and to the point, despite looking like sex in blue jeans.) brings us to the end of the chapters I had mostly-written, so it may take a little time between updates now. Don't kill me? On the downside, once Reading Week is over, I'll be back to the student-thing, but on the upside, I know where I'm going with the story now. The path of Logan/Jean was never in question, but the original action plot for all the introspection to hang on was a little weak, and the story was proving hard to advance as a result. But no more! I have Ideas. And all the wonderfully encouraging reviews have really convinced me that this, my first foray into longer fic, isn't going to result in me being eaten alive. Thanks! **


	5. Last Exit to Eden: Chapter 5

**A/N: And if anyone is still actually following this after about a two month break, you have my utmost respect. But, after exams, writer's block, cats, thunderstorms, vacations and other things, I've picked up the story again. Hopefully, I'll be able to update more regularly now. I wanted to start the action plot this chapter, but my muses had other ideas. I promise they'll start being more interesting soon!**

****

Nova Scotia may have been where they were going, but they were certainly taking their own sweet time to get there. Admittedly, it was half her fault, her hip joint cramping up at frequent intervals and necessitating poking Logan's shoulder and asking for a rest stop. He was surprisingly cooperative about it, even though she could sense his desire to drive straight through, fast as possible and losing himself in the road and the sensation of speed.

She'd long ago calculated just what forces were being applied thanks to the contortionism it took to keep her on the bike, and while the medical analysis no longer did all that much to amuse her over the hours on the road -- _I am not going to give in and start a conversation out of sheer boredom. We are ignoring him, Jean, and we don't want to be here, with him, going to Halifax, no matter how much of a craving for lobster and conversation we get. Remember that, girl_. -- it occurred to her that, from the simplicity of the break, the time already spent healing, and the fact that she could keep herself balanced with her telekinesis, she could probably safely trade in the plaster cast and crutches for a more mobile plastic brace and cane.

Mobility, and the ability to rent some nice automatic car and drive the heck away from Logan, Scott's motorcycle, and... everything. If she could get far enough away, maybe she really could forget it all.

Poke, poke, poke. "Logan? Can I ask you something?"

A snort. "So we're speaking to me again? Sure, Red, whaddya want to know?"

"Nothing about your mysterious past, don't worry." she replied, snorting herself, and then snorting a few more times at the sensation of some small insect hitting her face uncomfortably close to her nose. Stupid motocycle. "I just wanted to know if the route you're planning will take us through Montreal... assuming we ever leave the wilds of Ontario." she tacked on, attempting to recover a little dignity lost by her reaction to the bug. That _smirk_ was hanging in the air again, she could feel it.

The smirk disappeared and there was a touch of irritation in Logan's voice as he replied that "I don't have to take the back roads, Red. I was taking them to make it easier on _you_." He shifted gears upwards and sent them careening around a corner at a speed that, for once, Jean didn't squeak at.

_What?_ "Because I oh-so-desperately find it relaxing and easy to spend extra hours on the road, my leg stiffening to the point where I'm going to end up an arthritis patient by the time I'm 30...? What are you on?" she snapped back, meeting the irritation with some of her own as she tried to puzzle things out for herself. Logan said nothing, his shoulders tightening and the bike going still faster. They blazed past an RV pulled over so that the middle-aged couple within could coo over a few deer beside a small river, and she caught identical thoughts of _Damn inconsiderate bikers! _ as the deer scattered. She winced at the force of them, or rather her new sensitivity to them, and then... Lock. Key. Click. "Oh."

"That's right, Lady Grey, 'Oh'." Logan snorted again, the irritation changed to exasperation, but the motorcycle shedding a little speed "Don't you think I don't notice how you have to fight a headache whenever we stop for lunch or gas, or how you have me pull in at the most deserted motels for the night? S'your telepathy, isn't it?"

"Oh." said Jean again, caught at a loss and all of a sudden stuck with feelings of guilt which triggered feelings of irritation again, right behind them. Dammit, Logan wasn't supposed to actually have a sensitive side. The constant sidelong glances at her were supposed to be just because he was a lecherous bad boy who couldn't resist staring at her. She'd had him very neatly categorized, thank you very much, and the fact that she was focusing what remained of her mental barriers on not overhearing his thoughts was only because she didn't want to stumble across what lurid fantasies he might have of her. _And yet it's all right to have that little one of yours about cut-off shorts, no shirt, and a tropical island...?_ that irritating mental counterpoint prodded at her. _Oh, Shut up. _

Guilt. Wonderful. And of course she was acting like a spoiled brat, but she was grieving, in pain, strapped to a motorcycle with an infuriating Wolverine, and surely wasn't she entitled to a little brattiness? No? Oh, great. "Sorry...?" she offered at last, sheepishly. Silence. "I mean, I'm just not used to people noticing, really. The Professor and I have been working for eighteen years to teach me how to keep it concealed, keep it under wraps. People are so afraid of telepaths, so--"

"Red." he interrupted, pulling the bike to the side of the road and turning around to face her, brown eyes so intent that she had to drop her gaze to the toe of the slipper covering the cast. "_Jean_," he tried again, reaching over to tip her chin upwards and make her look at him, touch a contract of gentle with the roughness of his leather gloves. "Look at me, babe. I noticed. I don't mind. But hell, girl, I'm not going to let you hurt yourself if I can help it. Backwoods it is. I don't know what you think of me, I'm sure as hell it ain't flattering, but I'm not going to hurt you. Got it?" And before she could reply, he was turned around again, and the bike was back on the road.

"But you're hurting me by just being here, don't you get it?" she whispered against the back of his leather jacket, suddenly feeling too old and too tired to be doing this. Although he could no doubt hear her, there was no reply, the road just continuing to whip by, with the occasional distance sign appearing briefly on the right before being left far behind. She drooped her head forwards, pressing it between a pair of shoulderblades that simply belonged to another person for a moment in time, and let tears of frustration trail silently down her cheeks, shoulders shaking, but not permitting herself any sobs.

Logan simply drove on.

By the time they stopped at a roadside fish and chips stand in the heart of cottage country a few hours later, she was back under control again. Painted a cheerful reddish brown and with a trio of picnic tables beside the parking lot, the place was alive with cottagers and their children up for the weekend and closing up for the winter. The sort of spot the locals and the long-timers knew about, but the tourists were never clued in to.

Accordingly, there were a few stares as Logan got into line behind a white haired matriarch of Scots heritage who was leaning on the arm of a willowy granddaughter in her early twenties , the younger woman reading her the prices for her to complain at the state of inflation over. The grandaughter got a break while her grandmother was placing her order, and, smilingly, looked around. Logan got himself a frankly approving glance and the question of "You one of the resort people?"

"Naw," smirked the Wolverine. "Just passing through... I'm with her," A nod of his head over at Jean, who found herself half-blushing and half-infuriated by the assumption. _And half, even if the fractions don't add up, possessive of Logan getting that sort of look from that girl. God, I'm messed up._

"So, you wouldn't happen to know the straightest route to Ottawa, would you?"

"Not sure if it's the _straightest_, but if you take the 35 towards Lindsay, then head to Peterborough, you can get the highway to Ottawa from there. It'll save you dealing with Toronto traffic." A knowing groan exchanged between the pair, and then she was gone, called back to help her grandmother get back to their car with the grease spotted white boxes holding their lunch.

A few minutes later, installed at a picnic table, Jean gravely shook a french fry at Logan and noted that "I may be a dumb American, but Ottawa is _not_ in Nova Scotia, 'nor on the way to it. Give."

Logan shifted a little in his seat, and muttered a non-commital "...Things. Some stuff I need to check in on. Nothing you need to worry about... although maybe we can let you poke through a mall and get something a little less tourist for you?" A nod at her current maple leaf infested hoodie, and a further mutter about "Retail therapy. Whatever." with his fingers wiggled to bracket the words. "Anyways, won't take long, then we'll be on the road again. Didn't you ask something about Montreal?"

Jean, however, wasn't listening. She'd caught an underlying thought to that explanation of... "This is something for the Professor!" she pronounced, sitting up suddenly and turning a glare on Logan. "I told you, I don't want anything more to do with him, with the Team, with saving the fucking world, or any of it." she added quietly hissing the words in the face of a collection of cottagers all giving her strange looks. "I'm out, Logan, I mean it. You go to Ottawa, but I want you to drop me at the next Greyhound station we see. I'm _out_."

Logan shifted still more, then placatingly nudged his container of poutine towards Jean, as if the addition of gravy and cheese curds to french fries could perhaps soothe the savage beast. She ignored it. He sighed, and then nodded the admittance that "Yeah, it's for the Professor. But I ain't expecting you or even asking you to get involved, Red. Just come along for the ride, I'll leave you out of it."

All at once he was sitting at attention, one hand pressed flat against his heart and his eyebrows waggling enticingly. "Scout's honour?"

"Since when were _you_ in Scouts?"

"Never. But c'mon to Ottawa with me anyways. What?" The smirk had returned, and this time she could see it. "Afraid you might like it?"

"Oh... shut up."


	6. Last Exit to Eden: Chapter 6

**A/N:** See? Told you the chapters would come quicker now. And behold, we introduce the Action Plot! A couple confusing acronyms might be found within: CSIS is the Canadian Secret Intelligence Service, analogous to the CIA. The RCMP, while they're the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, don't really ride horses all that often, but they _are_ a nation-wide police force that tends to handle high-level crimes. Like the FBI, but also with some unique differences. Other than that... I think we can all muddle through. Thanks for all the feedback guys! It's really encouraging me to write.

---------------------------------

Ottawa, the very next day, and Logan wasn't sure he'd ever get the scent of hospital out of his nose. It was bad enough in the medical bay back down in Westchester, but there, at least, Jean's scent was equally strong amongst the trappings of her domain. Here...

Here, in addition to permanently jamming his sense of smell, he was going to get run over by a damn gurney, any minute now. Just how long did it _take_ to get a cast off someone's leg? Leaning warily against a wall and tripping the odd medical resident, he stared at the closed door to the treatment room where Jean was closeted, occasionally picking out her voice, raised in polite medical argument over whether or not her x-rays warranted going from a cast to a brace.

He'd put his money on Jean.

At the moment, however, he needed to go put some money in a pay phone. Stopping to lean on the counter at the nearest nursing station, he allowed that "If Dr. Jean Grey asks, I'm making a few calls over there," with a jerk of his head, and sloped off towards a bank of them.

"Put me through to James Hudson."

---------------------------------

A few hours later, with a leg brace enhanced Jean safely installed and exclaiming over room service at a hotel about seven degrees more swank than he usually was accustomed to, the Wolverine found himself at a small brick office building in the shadow of Parliment Hill. Legacy of Centennial year construction efforts in the late sixties, it was home to the sort of tiny government departments that taxpayers overlooked, and a few other departments that sought hard to cultivate the image of that. The floors featured faded orange and brown industrial carpet, half the chairs had split seats, and on one doorway was a discreet little plaque reading 'Department H'.

Hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, Logan let himself in. One small room, crammed to the gills with three desks, filing cabinets, piles of printouts, computer disks, a coffee maker and mugs arranged like a shrine, and one James Hudson, a solidly built man who looked more like an outdoorsman than the brilliant researcher he was.

He was also grinning fit to kill as Logan shouldered in, rising from his computer to cross the limited floorspace, and clap him about the shoulders. "Damn, it's been a while, but I knew you'd turn up eventually. Welcome to Department H... told you we'd make a go of it, didn't I?"

"That you did, James, that you did." Logan was forced to agree, even as the general orange, brown, and lack of windows earned an editorial eyebrow. "Yup. Average passerby would have no clue in hell what you've got going here." A pause, and the eyebrow twitched again. "...whatever it is you've got going here. How's Heather?"

"Oh, gorgeous as always. Still rags me about having to come save our asses in order for her husband and his best man to make the wedding... good times, man, good times. In town long enough to come over for dinner?" While he was bantering away, James rose and calmly and methodically swept the room with what appeared to be a long black wand mounted on top of some digital box that bleeped and chimed at irregular intervals.

"Help yourself to a seat and some coffee while you're at it." he continued, not missing a beat as he produced a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and began digging about behind a standard government office framed print of rural Canadiana. A grunt later, and a tiny black Something was removed from it, which was walked across the hall and slid beneath the doorway of the National Turkey Farmers' Licensing Board before the man took a seat back at his desk again. "CIA." was the one word explanation, as the bug detector was returned to his desk drawer.

With a grunt and another quirk of his eyebrow, Logan looked up from where he'd been gazing approvingly at a tin of Tim Horton's ground coffee and wondered the obvious question of "What the hell's the CIA doing spying on Canada in general and you in specific? Incidentally, it's been too damn long since I've had a good cup from Timmy's. Been down in the States a bit lately."

"I heard." replied James, not sounding surprised. "Keeping company with Dr. Charles Xavier, philanthropist, mutant rights supporter, and all around distinguished and respected figure. Who also has a modified SR-71 living in his basement. And you turned down working with us 'cause you didn't want to save the world, you just wanted to drive around in that beat up old truck of yours." A snort. "Can I say 'I told you so'?"

"No. But you can tell me where you keep the coffee filters, how you know so much about that, and what the CIA's doing bugging your office."

"Filing cabinet to the right, top drawer, satellites and good interdepartmental relations with CSIS, and the fact that there are certain members of the US government who feel that any country who officially sees mutants as just people with abilities to be put to use, rather that witchhunted as potential terrorists are just a bunch of red Communists out to take over the world. It's the Underground Railroad, gay rights and draft dodging all rolled into one. Now, trade, what's got you up here, business for the shadowy Xavier, or what?"

There was a rustling as Logan went about setting a fresh pot to brew, and then an uncomfortable shrug. "Partially something personal, partially... Know about anything wierd happening out in Halifax? Mutant-related wierd?"

In answer, James went over to another filing cabinet, and removed a manila envelope. Clearing a space on his desk between a half-assembled molecular modeling kit, and a picture of he and his wife, he poured out a collection of photographs and police reports, noting that "Of course, I'm not showing you this... but take a look over it."

The photos were black and white, eight by ten sheets glossy with good finishing, but grainy courtesy of distance and poor lighting. Still, the imagery was clear, with physical mutants, some barely over sixteen and all looking drugged, being loaded and unloaded from a standard shipping container. "Smuggling ring from countries with strict anti-mutant laws."

"No, worse than that. Smuggling ring operated by a fellow named Lesair. European crime boss who made his money in the white slave trade. Now, there's even more exotic birds to be sold. Got to keep up with the times, you know." A short bark of harsh laughter from James, his expression a mixtured of sickened, angry and frustrated. "I've got the evidence, man. They're using Halifax as a transfer point before heading out to foreign markets. But Lesair's got himself some greased palms in the government. Not at high levels, necessarily, but right at one of the levels between me and them, so none of my requests get through. There's another shipment set to come in in a little over two weeks, and I can't act on it, because I can't get a requisition through the channels to beg for more without tipping him off that something's up, and messing up the RCMP's investigation. My hands are tied, unless..."

A look passed between the two men just then, accompanied by twin smiles that didn't bode at all well for the absent Lesair.

"Yeah."

"Yeah. I can't give you names and numbers now, not with so many different groups watching this little office building, but I've got a man in Montreal that I'll route them through to you. Here's the address." A piece of paper with numbers, but no name, was handed over and promptly introduced to the tame black hole that was Logan's pocket.

"That's in the main shopping district."

"Yeah, he's a fashion designer for his day job."

"Well, that's _one_ thing that should make Jean happy..." was vented in a disbelieving murmur.

"Who's Jean?" James promptly pounced, chuckling suddenly and grinning once more. "You don't mean Jean _Grey_, do you? If you do, Heather will kill me if she doesn't come to dinner. I've seen her on the news... you lucky dog. Always did have a thing for redhea--" He silenced himself at a quick shake of Logan's head, and an expression that was doing its best impression of a prarie thunderstorm. "Right. The something personal."

"Yeah." Logan quickly got to his feet, moody look still in place, although the paper cup of coffee he'd gotten mere moments earlier was still being cradled protectively. He volunteered nothing further, jaw working silently, before at last he offered that "I've gotta go. But say hi to Heather for me, and if you want a lead on something, get folks out to check through the ruins of a busted dam complex out in northern Alberta." And with that, the Wolverine was off again, a head full of thoughts.

Unusually, he failed to notice the couple watching him leave from their car parked outside the building. Or that they were the same couple that had earlier been sitting on a bus stop bench when he'd arrived.


End file.
